Of Werewolves and Dragons
by NerdyChicksHaveMoreFun
Summary: Fate has a way of guiding us. And then screwing us when it feels like it. I am, first and foremost, the sole leader of a werewolf pack. Don't let the songs and prophecies fool you; I don't care about Skyrim. I care about my family. Through dragons and wars, Guilds and vampires, legends and power-struggles, all I do is for them. And don't think I'll play fair. (Semi-altered Quests).
1. On the Plains Of Whiterun

**A/N: Some words you might want to know going into this:**

**Alpha-leader of a wolf pack**

**Beta-the alpha's second in command **

***No, the alpha's mate is not the beta, the alpha's mate is just the alpha female/alpha male. In other words, a pack is led by an alpha pair (the alpha and his/her mate). Most of the time, anyway.**

**Omega-refers to the lowest ranking member in a wolf pack OR a pack-less wolf**

* * *

**Chapter 1: On The Plains of Whiterun**

Somewhere on the Whiterun plains, a Wolf howls.

It was not a normal wolf; of this I was certain. How, I did not know, only that I could sense it in my bones. A grim smile crosses my face. I do not enjoy killing others of my kind; loath it, in fact. But it is a necessity. A none-wolf might never suspect it, but the Silver Hand were becoming much more active, and I make it a habit of staying on their good side; it keeps suspicion away from me and my pack. And if that means bringing in a fellow werewolf's head a couple times a year, well, then, better them than us.

My eyes shift to a deep, piercing ember and my neck lengthens slightly, barely enough to be noticed, and I return the werewolf's howl.

I need not shift any more than this; I was born a wolf, and after twenty-five years, it is a part of me; I control it like a normal person controls a limb. Even when strong emotions are present, which might cause someone with far less experience to shift, only my eyes will change. Seeing how strong emotion is always present in me-not surprising, given my past-most people this assume my eyes are naturally ember in color. The wilds are the only places I'm ever truly at ease, and the only place my eyes shift back to the dark-brown I was born with.

The other Wolf hears the challenge, the threat, in my call, and other Wolves join in.

_Great, a pack. _I think bitterly. _Might as well get going; I don't feel like fighting a whole hoard of them right now._

I completely shift now, needing the speed, and jump easily onto a fifteen-foot boulder jutting out of the hill behind me. I pause, just for a second, to survey the scene and enjoy the view; twin moons blood-red against a star dotted night sky, mountains rising majestically behind, the plains of Whiterun in front of me, all makes for a beautiful sight.

Then the pack rushes into view; if you could call them a pack. Only three members in total. I immediately locate there alpha-it's easy to discern who it is, from the way the others act around him. He's isn't big, only slightly larger than me, putting him at about-average size for a male, and though I would put him at about my age, I wager that I have twice the life experience he does.

I shift to get a better look at him, no longer intent on moving on; though I will not kill an entire pack, I plan on quickly sending them back to their den with their tails between their legs.

He spots me quickly; it's hard not to, with my red-ish fur outlines against a black sky. The pack alters their direction slightly, heading for the base of my boulder. I use the time to survey the rest of the pack.

One of the other wolves, the beta resembles the alpha in color and build, but I estimate he out-weighs his superior by thirty-five or forty pounds; this sparks my interest, because I would assume he would have become the alpha instead of his smaller companion. The third would is smaller, a female, with a slender and agile body.

It doesn't take me long to size them up; the second wolf has size and power, but lacks speed, while the female is light on her feet back doesn't have any real power. The alpha is probably the trickiest one; smaller enough to be quick, big enough to be powerful.

Never the less, it will still be an easy victory.

The pack skids to a stop at the base of my perch, low growls emanating from them. Any _normal_ Wolf would be submissive about now; lowering their heads, maybe rolling on their back, trying to make themselves appear as small and unthreatening as possible. After all, no matter how small the pack is, they have home-field advantage.

But normal is boring, and I am neither.

I do the exact opposite of what it expected. I let my hackles raise, hold my head high, shove my ears forward, and growl back.

The smaller male snarls a warning, obviously angered that an intruder is standing the way only the alpha of the territory-being him-has a right to.

_"Who are you?" _he growls.

"_That is none of your business, pup." _I snarl back. The larger male growls threateningly in defense of his leader.

"_Leave, stranger. This is our territory." _the leader says coolly, ignoring my jab about his age. '_At least he's able to keep a level head.' _I think.

"_When you say 'our' I do hope you mean more than just you three." _I sneer. "_Because such a pathetically small pack won't be able to hold on to such good hunting grounds for long."_

"_You dare threaten us on our own land?" _the female says sharply. I shift my gaze to her and give a devilish smile-which probably looks quite frightening coming from a Wolf's face.

"_Why, I would hardly call it 'daring'. That would employ possible danger, or at least a little bit of a challenge._" I say, purposely being arrogant and obnoxious. What I say is true; a pack this small won't be able to hold on to such good hunting grounds for long, and though my words may have been in jest, they have given me an idea I quite like: when this pack loses the Whiterun Plains, it will be because I won it from them.

So, the remainder of tonight is solely for the purpose of testing this pathetic excuse for a pack. How far I have to go to goad them into a fight, their skill in battle, their tactics and teamwork. Anything that will be useful in the war I plan to start.

"_Watch your mouth, cur." _the leader snarls. "_Leave. I will not tell you again."_

_"Ah, how cute. You think you're intimidating." _I purr. "_Like when the kitten hisses at the dragon."_

_"Enough!" _he snaps. "_We've offered you mercy, and you've laughed in our face. Prepare to die."_

I bust out laughing_. 'Oh, this is going to be a most interesting night indeed!' _I think_. _

Without warning, the female wolf launches herself through the air towards me. I wait a split-second, and the minute she's within arm's reach I lash out violently with my left arm, catching her in the cheek and knocking her to the ground to the right of my boulder. She doesn't get up, unconscious, though still audibly breathing.

In the couple of seconds during which this happens, the alpha has streaked around to the hill behind my boulder, putting him on the same level as me and is advancing slowly; meanwhile the larger male comes halfway up that same hill on my left side, putting him at eye level with the top of my boulder. I shift my stance fractionally so as to see both of them.

For a second, we stare at eachother, each waiting for the other to make a move. The alpha's ear twitches a fraction of an inch, a signal, and the larger one leaps into action. He jumps up to a rock sticking out of the hill, pushes off, and sails towards the air through me.

I know instantly what the alpha's plan is. He wants to force me to turn completely to face his beta, putting me broadside to him, so he can jump and hit me at the same time as his companion, knocking me off the rock and stunning me enough to let the large male pin me. It would be a good plan.

If it weren't so obvious.

I file that fact away for later: smart, but predictable.

I whirl to face the beta, exposing my side to the alpha, as he planned; and he takes the bait. The minute I see him jump towards me out of the corner of my eye, I leap straight up. Not a second to soon, either; the beta was so close to hitting me that when I jump his body knocks into my foot, throwing my balance off. But my course of action does work; the alpha, having jumped a fraction of a second before his beta, blindsides him now, and the two collapse in a tangled heap on the edge of the boulder.

Once he becomes confident in his own plans, this alpha can easily be led into a trap. Another fact I file away.

The alpha, landing on top, is the first to jump up; and the second his paws brush the stone, I launch myself into him, sending us both tumbling off the edge. The only difference is that I land and roll, quickly regaining my footing, while he falls flat on his back.

The 'thud' as he hits the ground seems to echo, and probably would make any normal person's stomach lurch. I know from experience that a thud like that means the wind's been knocked out of him, and I waste no time. I jump onto his chest, straddling him, and start punching him across the face.

The first blow succeeds in keeping him stunned; the second draws blood. The third blow knocks him out completely. I raise my arm for another blow, just to be sure.

"_Stop!_" the beta shouts from behind me. I look over my shoulder to see him staring down at from atop my boulder. All the fight has left his eyes.

"_Stop. The battle is yours. There is no need to kill him." _he says, leaping down more nimbly than I thought he could manage-another thing I make sure to remember.

I move off of his alpha and advance on him, stopping less than a foot away. He glares at me for a moment longer, before dropping his gaze respectfully and lowering himself to the ground in submission.

That he does not try to run gives me pause. Most Wolves certainly would, knowing that sticking around only means harsh punishment followed by being run off. Yet this one stays to face it with honor.

At first, I recover and am happy to meet his expectations. I step closer, towering over him and lowering my head to him neck to deliver a nip that, though painful, will not be fatal. He senses this, and I he tenses up; with my ears so close to his neck, I easily pick up on the sound of his pulse quickening. I pause and look him in the eye for a second.

I see only resigned fear there, and it instantly melts any malice away. I lick his cheek playfully, bounding away mischievously when I see the confusion flash across his face. I pause only for a second when I'm about twenty yards away, looking back and flashing him my most wolfish grin.

Then I turn and run off into the night, leaving one very confused Moonblood alone in the wilderness.

* * *

I travel almost till morning to get back to my pack's den, all the while pondering why I let the beta go.

At first I have no idea what compelled me to let him go, let alone lick him, a show of affection. It's something I haven't done since I was a pup; certainly not something I have _ever_ done as a pack alpha.

As the sun rises, and I find myself in the mountains of Markarth, a good hundred miles from the Winchester countryside, I realize that it's because he showed he had some honor. Rarely have I seen this in my lifetime; it's always been survival of the fittest, which means cheap-shots, deception, and all around disorderly conduct. Honor, or anything close to it, are for the packs that always have enough food and don't have to work for it, for the packs that have influence in their Holds and don't have to hide.

That could be us, I think, a picture of the small Whiterun pack flashing across my mind. _That could be my pack running the plains at night, with never a fear of discovery or an empty stomach. Bal and Fay would never go to bed hungry; Nekesh and Raen and Kjor and would never have to fight off guards and Forsworn. Ren and Uvela wouldn't have to drain their_ energy_ dry to transmute silver ore into gold; Elrohir and Esmond wouldn't have to poach. _

We would be living, not just surviving.

That is all I've ever wanted for my pack, a life where they can be happy. That is my life's mission, the source of my strength, the underlying motive for every choice I make.

And their new life will begin with Whiterun.

* * *

I'm making my way down the side of a mountain, to a valley that opens out next to a river, when I hear claws scratching rock behind me. I whirl around, hackles raised and ears back, every nerve on end, eyes sweeping over the rocky terrain. The wind, I note, is not on my side, blowing my scent to whoever lurks nearby while washing their scent away.

"_Show yourself._" I growl. My eyes catch a flicker of movement up the mountain and slightly to the left.

"_Ho, Shim._" greets a Wolf, stepping out from behind a boulder. He's a handsome one, there's no denying, and that along with a sturdy, square, battle-scarred muzzle means that this particular werewolf looks every bit the role of alpha.

I recognize him instantly as Kjor, not a alpha, but my beta.

"_Ho, Kjor." _I respond. "_Something wrong?" _I ask, sensing something wrong.

"_Aye. A big group of Imperial soldiers passed through the area not long ago, heading for the Cyrodiil border." _he says. My heart drops to my stomach.

"_Esmond." _I breathe. Esmond, a twenty-seven-year-old charming Breton with looks to match, is one of the wolves in my pack, and a close friend (as are all the Wolves in my pack, seeing as none of us have any family outside of the pack). He recently took a trip to the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border for personal reasons; what reason that was, he didn't bother to say, only the general area where he was headed.

"_My thoughts exactly." _Kjor says grimly. "_I was going to get Ren or Elrohir to warn him, but the Forsworn saw Fay and Raen and had them pinned down in a clump of trees."__  
_

_As if I didn't already have enough to worry about._

"_Don't worry, Shim." _Kjor adds quickly, as though reading my thoughts. After years of leading the pack together, we pretty much _can_. "_The rest of the gang is driving the damn bandits off. So, d__o you want to go get Esmond and have me deal with the Forsworn, or the other way around?"_

I ponder the question. Though the thought of the Forsworn engaged in battle with my family sets my blood boiling and my teeth on edge, the thought of Esmond, alone, with so many soldiers nearby, sends anxiety coursing through me.

"_Who do these Forsworn belong to, Lund or Kraldar?" _I ask after a minute, referring to the two Forsworn leaders who give us the most trouble. Lund, though crafty, inherited all the bad fighters from the previous leader, and though they have been improving under his rule, they are yet to be much more than entertainment. Kraldar is just the opposite; he makes sure his individual soldiers are capable fighters, but isn't all that cunning or imaginative.

"_Lund's."_ he says, and I nod.

_"Good. Lund's not quite so dangerous yet." _I say. "_You help the gang run them off; use it as a test. See if we're still in fighting shape."_

Kjor recognizes the glint in my eye, knows that I have something bigger planned than just a casual survey of the pack's skills.

"_Mind letting me in on whatever it is your planning?" _he inquires.

_Like I said, we pretty much read each other's minds._

I grin mischievously.

"_I tell you when I get back." _

He gives me an equally devilish grin. (I was right, it does look a little creepy on a wolf's face).

"_Be seeing you, then." _he says, bounding past me towards the valley floor. I watch him for a moment, before turning and heading southeast.

That was the last time we spoke as just alpha and beta. The next time we had a conversation, things had changes; I had changed.

What could change my life so drastically, you ask? Why, an Imperial ambush that captures Ulfric Stormcloak, of course.

* * *

**A/N: So this chapter was mainly character background, because I always hate that they start you off in Skyrim with no back-story. (So yes, the ambush I'm referring to here is the one that Rolof describes not five minutes into the game).**

***Since I know it wasn't mentioned in this chapter, just so you know, the main character's full name is Ri'Shima Khamiri, (A.K.A Shima Firemoon), a female Khajiit.**

***Yes, I know you didn't need to know the word omega for this chapter, so no need to point it out in a comment. I did it on purpose because you will almost definitly need to know the term later. **

**Hope it wasn't to boring. Plan on having the next chapter up soon. **

**Reviews always make me write faster. ;)**


	2. The Ambush

**A/N: Here's the next chapter. Hope you like it! Also, I'm looking for anyone familiar with the Elder Scrolls series to beta for the story. Also, just so you know, the main character does NOT like Ulfric Stormcloak, so she will be insulting him quite a bit. This does not reflect how I feel about him; this is simply how I feel a Khajiit would view him, seeing as how the Nords treat their race.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Ambush**

I searched the small valley where Esmond said he was going, and found no trace of him other the familiar scent of one of my werewolves, faint but never-the-less imprinted on my mind. The fact that his presence does not accompany it makes dread settle in the pit of my stomach.

Upon searching the small valley, one thing I do find, though, is a Stormcloak encampment; not much of a challenge to locate, when you have a bunch of Nords crammed into a small valley, they're bond to make some noise. I watch the camp for a moment from a tree-covered hill nearby, and my lips curl into a snarl at the sight of so many arrogant racists in one place.

Having already searched the area, and finding Esmond absent, I settle down on my hill to rest-I've been running all over the countryside since leaving Whiterun almost ten hours ago, and even though my wolf body has amazing stamina, I'm emotionally worn. Making war plans, finding my pack under attack, and having one of my family members MIA in such a short period of time will do that to you.

I lay down to rest my paws, and not five minutes later, my head is up and I find a low growl rumbling unbidden from my chest. Strolling through the camp, dressed in fine clothes and flanked by guards, looking one hundred percent the high-and-might king he thinks himself, is Ulfric Stormcloak.

I perk up, knowing trouble is not far behind. I might be young, but I've been around the block a time or two. I wait for another hour or so, letting my mind drift back to Whiterun. I wonder if I could hire the Companions out to watch the Whiterun werewolves...

At the end of said hour, Ulfric is socializing with some of the camp officers, off in the corner where he hopefully can't do any damage. Something snaps me from my thoughts, and it takes a second for me to realize what it is-someone, several someones, actually, crashing through the forest near the camp. At first I'm inclined to ignore it-whatever the Stormcloaks are doing, it's no concern of mine-but then the wind shifts, and I catch Esmond's scent.

I'm on my feet in an instant. Before I've even realized that I'm moving, I running, letting instinct take over as the wolf in me flows through the forest and it's obstacles with rapid speed and silent murderous intent. I skid to a halt, hidden in the bushes on the edge of the camp, when the group making so much noise stumbles straight into the cent of the encampment.

Being chased through camp, looking exhausted, scared, and very bloody, is Esmond in his human form.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to jump in then and there and rip the entire rebel unit to pieces.

He is quickly tackled by one of the three soldiers chasing him. A murderous mix between a snarl and a growl rumbles from my throat, but it goes unheard over the ruckus of the Stormcloaks trying to pin and subdue my packmate, who is fighting tooth-and-nail to escape.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

Of course, Ulfric has to choose then to saunter up. Esmond isn't stupid; I've told them stories of Ulfric and the powers his Shout has, and he wisely falls still.

"We found him by the pond, sir." says the leader of the group, jumping up to face the Jarl. His lackeys roughly flip Esmond over and jerk his hands behind his back. The rope gets cinched down so tight that I can smell blood, making my vision flash red and bringing another snarl. It, too, goes unheard.

"We have reason to believe he's an Imperial spy." the leader continues, oblivious to the fact that every second that passes makes me more and more likely to rip his throat out.

It's only after a second that I register his words. Spy? _Imperial_? Hah! Like anyone from my pack is stupid enough to join up for the Stormcloaks _or_ the Imperials. Not that either faction would let them join; only one of my Wolves is a Nord, but has no love for the rebels, so theirs no chance of anyone tagging along with the Stormcloaks. As for the Empire, well, almost all of us have had bounties on our heads at one time or another, and I doubt they let criminals in.

"Spy, eh?" Ulfric rumbles. I gotta give it to him, I might not like him much, but that voice of his is something else. On the other hand, his tone can only be described as sinister. "Get him to the interrogator. Find out what he knows. He is free to kill him when he's done."

"Yes, sir." the soldier says, almost merrily. The Yarl waves his hand in dismissal and stalks back to the table he'd been sitting at, while said soldier grabs Esmond-hands now tied behind his back-by the hair and jerks him to his knees. "To Rundi it is, then."

Anther snarl leaps from me, this time drawing a glance from a couple people. I instantly go stock-still, and after a moment the few people go back to there business. The lead soldier's gaze lingers on the bush concealing me, and behind him, Esmond's head come's up slightly. One of his eyes is black and swollen shut, several bruises mark his face, and his jaw and nose are broken, and the latter is sporting blood all over his face. Not to mention multiple cuts and gashes.

A stab of pain goes through my heart; in that moment, the thing I want most in the world is to run to him, wrap him in my arms and protect him. And, just as strong, I need to kill every single Stormcloak who dare's lay a hand on him-the more bloody, the better.

Esmond must see something, or maybe he just senses my presence, but I see hope light in his pain-clouded eyes. My protective emotions rise to the surface, threatening to take over, and I mercilessly squash them back down. These emotions, maybe they come from being an alpha, maybe they're just mine, but either way, over teh years I've learned to control them.

_I will get you out of this,_ I think. _I swear._

In the mean time, I can work on the more violent part of my urges. I already have one name: Rundi. Now, to find out the name of the lead soldier.

* * *

They drop Esmond off at a tent on the edge of the camp. I shift back to my Khajiit form-and I might add, after almost twelve hours as a wolf, my legs feel wobbly and unbalanced underneath me. I quickly use magic to summon my armor- thick leather with light metal plating, matching boots and gauntlets, and a metal helmet shaped like a wolf's head. A second spell brings me my sword, bow and dagger (all Orcish, crafted by Nekesh, my Orc pack-mate.) . As soon as I'm dressed, I scale a tree to get a better view of the camp.

By this time, Esmond is being wailed on, something I try to ignore, seeing as paying any real attention to it will only lead to trouble. Ulfric and his officers still sit around their table, drinking ale and gambling. Fitting; I doubt they could do much else. Around camp, off-duty soldiers stand or sit in small groups and chat. A couple cook dinner over a large fire in the center of camp, and two others work a make-shift forge not far away.

That's what I do for the remainder of the day. Watch the rebels, plan Esmonds rescue, nibble on some rabbit meat. At some point I fall asleep in my tree, and I awake several hours later. My head quickly snaps in all directions, taking in the camp, making sure nothing's happened to Esmond.

Other than being unconscious and tied to a chair in the interrogator's tent, he's safe. I wait another until nightfall, at which point Ulfric says good-bye to his companions and slips into the biggest tent in, located squarely in the middle of camp. Two soldiers stand guard outside the door.

I silently slip from the tree and sneak around the edges of camp, sticking to the shadows. Barely any sound penetrates the still night, from me or the usually-loud forest, and it puts me on edge. The sooner I get Esmond and get out of here, the better.

Since the interrogator's tent is in the top-right corner of camp (really its the north-east corner, but being in the tree has me oriented in a left-right format) so I get within ten yards of it while still remain firmly in the grasps of the woods. I glance around, making sure the the east-end guards, another ten yards away, have their backs to me, and then using a little bit of werewolf-senses to make sure nobody else is in the general area.

I dart from the bushes to the shadow the back of the tent throughs on the ground, my eyes on the guards. They take no notice-I'm actually a fairly skilled sneak, thanks to some time in the Thieves Guild that I don't care talk about these days. I make my way around the edges of the tent, pausing when I come to the entrance. I take one last glance around before slipping in, letting the flap fall closed behind me.

Esmond sits, still tied to the chair, in the middle of an other-wise barren room. His held lulls at an uncomfortable angle, unsupported as he sleeps-that is, if he's asleep and not unconscious.

"Oh, Esmond." I breath as I creep closer, taking in his raggedy state. Besides the injuries on his face I noted earlier, sevral new, puckering welts have been added to his once-handsome face-by Rundi, no doubt. As my eye's travel over the rest of his body, my blood boils to see that it has received similar treatment; his bare torso is more purple than skin-colored, and I'd wager to guess he has several ribs broken. From the unnatural angles of his legs, they too are broken, and quiet savagely.

Oh, the Stormcloaks will pay for this.

I light-foot it to behind his chair and draw my dagger. Whoever tied his hands wrapped a thick rope around his wrist several times before actually tieing it, and as I start to saw the rope with my knife I realize that it's going to take quite a while to get through them.

My suspicions are right, and after almost five minutes I'm barely halfway through the bonds. My heart hammers in my chest, as I am keenly aware that every second this takes puts me in more danger of being caught and, more importantly, puts Esmond in danger of not being rescued.

After several more tense minutes, the rope finally falls from his wrists. I glance to his face, but throughout this whole process he has not awoken. Worried, I walk around and kneel directly in front of him. After a couple seconds of studying his face, I reach up check his pulse.

I almost have a heart attack there and then.

For a second I'm not able to detect any signs of life, but then there's a slight thump against my fingertip. Relief surges through me, along with a whole new wave of worry.

My hands quickly alight with a healing spell, and I wave my hands over his face, taking great care in healing the many cuts and bruises there, before moving down his torso. I'm working on his ribs when he finally comes to.

"Shima?" he whispers groggily.

"The one and only." I respond softly, flashing him a gently smile for a second before going back to my work.

"Ooo, that feels nice." he groans, head lulling back as he closes his eyes.

"Oh, snap out of it." I hiss. "How the hell did you let yourself get captured by the Stormcloaks?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I was bored."

I scowl at him, letting the spell fade from my hands. His eyes snap open as he frowns acusingly down at me.

"We will discuss this later." I grumble after a second, finishing up my first-aid by healing his legs. My cat-ears pick up a slightly unsettling grinding sound as the bones pop back into their natural places.

"Let's go." I say, hopping up. Esmond rises to his feet, swaying slightly, before tumbling forward. I catch his arm and pull him upright again.

"Looks like you aren't quite the healer after all." he mumbles against my ear.

"Oh, shut up and lean on me." I say. He doesn't make any move to do as he's told, but doesn't protest when I drape his arm across my shoulders, holding it in place with one hand and using the other to guide his hips towards the door. We slip out and turn to go around the side of the tent, intending to get back to the cover of the forest.

Thats when chaos erupts.

The surrounding forest lets loose a battle cry, causing alarmed Stormcloaks to stumble from their tents as Imperial soldiers pour into the camp.

The bulk of the Imperials meet the very unprepared Stormcloaks around the cooking fire, cutting through them with ease. I stare in grim satisfaction as rebel after rebel falls, blood spurting from gruesome and mortal wounds.

I don't even realize that I've stopped to stare until one of the soldiers point his sword at me.

"There! They're trying to escape!" he bellows. I curse as five or six soldiers disentangle themselves from the main massacre and charge towards me.

"Dammit!" I hiss. I shove Emond roughly towards the forest. "Get out of here. I'll hold them off for as long as I can."

"What? No!"

"Get back to Markarth. If I'm not back in a week, tell Kjor that he's the alpha." I continue, ignoring his protest and turning to the oncoming soldiers. I draw my sword and hold it at the ready in my right hand, my left alighting with a fire spell.

"I'm not leaving you here to die!" Esmond explains.

"I said _leave_." I snarl over my shoulder at him, eyes flashing bright amber. He stares at me for a second, and I can see he's fighting the urge to obey-I am his alpha, after all, and it's instinctive for him to listen to me. I turn back to the soldiers and let loose a stream of firing, stopping most of them short and engulfing two unlucky fellows.

"Be careful." Esmond says form behind me. Then I hear him stumble away into the safety of the forest.

The soldiers are on me seconds afterword, and I hack and slash my way though them, lighting them on fire and impaling them while they're distracted. I stand, panting, as the last soldier from the group backs away, fear flashing across his eyes.

I risk a glance at the center of camp, to find that the battle-or should I say massacre-has ended. The handful of survivors have their hands raised above their heads, and the Imperials move among them, disarming them and tying their hands.

"G-g-guys! We've got a fighter!" the soldier in front of me shouts to his friends. I watch as the entire Imperial host, who had previously forgotten about me, turn in my direction. I fix my embe eyes on the soldier as rage rolls through me, silently promising his death.

On some silent signal, the rest of the Imperials stalk closer, swords drawn, leaving only five men back to continue to disarm the Stormcloaks. They quickly make a semicircle in front of me. For a minute, none of us moving, each waiting for the other to attack first.

"Com'on, then!" I snarl, eyes darting around the circle. Movement to my left catches my eye, and I block the mace that is driven forcefully down at my head. The Imperial wielding it gives me a look of surprise before I engulf him in flames. He screams in pain and stumbles back, giving me the opportunity to drive my sword through his neck. I twist the blade and yank it free. The motion pretty much rips his throat out. He slumps to his knees, dead, and I kick his body over.

I glare around the circle, making it clear without ever speaking that they will share this fate.

But they haven't kept this war up this long without bravery, and all at once the majority of the hoard attacks, slashing maces and swords. A combination of Khajiit instinct and werewolf speed kick in, and I weave my way effortlessly through the Imperials, countering blows and brutally dealing fatal injuries, ending miniature battles in one exchange before spinning off to another one, a deadly and graceful dance with thirty-some partners.

As what I assume is the fifteenth person falls to Orcish steel and flames, some of the rebels back away from the main fighting and draw bows. My dance becomes less and less graceful as I dodge arrows and once or twice use a burnt and bloody, but still very much alive, Imperial as a human shield.

Though I fight well, my stamina starts to fade as exhaustion takes over. My opponents sense this, and several attack me at once.

Then it happens; as I block a strike from a mace I feel the bite of steel in my shoulder, and as I whirl and spout flames at my assailant, a shield bashes into my ribs. I stumble and fall to a knee, throwing myself to the side to avoid the longsword blade that sinks several inches into the ground where I just was.

Finally, knowing I'm spent, and knowing there's no chance of escape, I do the last thing I know to do: take as many of them with me as possible. With the last of my strength I jump away from the main group, raise my sword over my head and drive it into the ground, focusing every last bit of Destruction magic I can through the blade. It buries itself in the ground, a ring of fire exploding out from it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I just barely glance the Imperial as he brings the hilt of his sword down on my head.

As the world goes black, I am dimly aware of the agonized screams of burning soldiers and the grim smile that forms on my face.

* * *

The very next thing I'm aware of, before any of my other senses have returned, is the sound of hooves clopping against the road.

Why am I still alive? I was certain that the Imperials would execute me. I did, after all, single-handedly kill off half their soldiers. That certainly permits death.

As my other senses return, I look around groggily. I'm sitting on a wagon, hands bound in front of me, as the caravan of prisoner wagons leisurely winds its way through a forest.

"Look who's finally awake." a Nord voice says. My gaze snaps to a Stormcloak sitting on a bench across form me. At seeing who it is, my ears lay back and a snarl forms on my lips.

It's that lead soldier. I had hoped he wasn't one of the survivors. Of course he is; couldn't have anything good happen in my life, now could we?

"You were trying to cross the border to, weren't you?" he continues. 'Nope, but feel free to keep thinking that.' I think. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that theif over there."

"I wouldn't say walked in to. I actual fought worth a damn." I mutter. Either the Stormcloak doesn't here me, or he ignores the comment.

"Damn you Stormcloaks!" a man to my right, the thief, curses. Finally, a man I can agree with. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they weren't looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now."

_Oh, please. If these nit-wits can catch you, you would've never made it to Hammerfell, _I think_._ But then again, here I am, so I keep my mouth shut.

"You there." he says, turning to me. "You and me shouldn't be here. It's these bloody Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"Well we're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

I glare daggers at the Nord. How dare he act like we have anything in common?!

"And what's his problem?" the theif continues, nodding past me. My head snaps to the left, and I let out a growl as I see who it is. Still dressed in his rine blue robes, gagged and bond, is Ulfric.

Of course they had to sit him right next to me. They don't want him to live, after all.

The image of the Yarl sentencing Esmond to the interrogators tent flashes through my mind, and my lips curl back to reveal the canines of a werewolf, not a Khajiit. From the look on Stormcloak's face, my eyes are flashing ember.

With a primal werewolf roar that sends fear shooting through the nobleman's eyes, I launch myself at him, sending us both tumbling off the back of the carriage.


End file.
